Conferring With The Moon
by Weaver of the Tangled Web
Summary: The moon's fair image quaketh in the raging waves of ocean, whilst she, in the vault of heaven, moves with silent peaceful motion.


He stands upon a cliff. The crisp mountain air has invited color to appear along the pale lines of his neck, and around the rims of his ears. Little else is visible; black eveningwear, black cape, black gloves, and an elegant but chilling mask have hidden the rest of this man away from the world. The skeleton-thin frame seems barely affected by the strength of the wind that blows across his tenuous perch; it sways ever so slightly, like a rose in a gentle spring breeze, while the gnarled tree beside his form seems nearly ripped from its ages-old position.

The moonlight shines down upon him, dispassionate as a disembodied soul, playing with the shadows of his clothing and casting intricate designs upon the rocks around his feet. No sound interrupts this silent communication, this sacred affinity, this intimate communion. His face—or rather, the mask that hides it—is tipped towards that luminescent orb, and eyes like flames are swelling wide enough to take in everything that mysterious being may know.

He hears music in that light; the pale blue-white glow that lays upon the landscape, enveloping everything in its serene glow. It is alien, it is unearthly—and yet, something about it speaks of home, speaks of calm and security and quiet, peaceful, eternal beauty. That music plays itself out in his mind, soothing a broken spirit—and, more importantly, a broken heart. No sooner than those eyes leave her will the pain and the discontent return, but until then, he finds happiness within her.

No other has brought him such peace, such comfort, no other but one, and even that was not a lasting aid. Betrayed, he was left to console his own heart, to mend his own wounds, and he was not even left with enough heart to do so. Death was his answer.

But first, there was a thing to do. Before he would allow himself to curl within the musty depths of the Palais Garnier, and to slowly melt into the earth beside the little well—before he would drift into eternal dreams of her, of the angel...

Before death, he has to confer with the pale lady—paler, even, than his angel. Before the final release, before the step into the greatest unknown, he has to speak to her, has to hear the music that the night has always brought to his tormented soul.

That music curls within his breast now, swelling it with a sorrowful happiness, with a melancholy joy. The moon's light is nothing but tranquility, brings nothing but harmony to the mass of dissonant chords that have collected within him. The bare branches of the tree beside him reach ever towards her, straining towards her beauty and her love; a skeletal hand reaches up to mimic the action.

Mankind believes that plants reach towards the sun, desiring to bring themselves closer to the life that it brings. This is a falsehood; rather, they reach for the moon, for her mystery and her perfection and the sadness that she inspires, for that sadness brings them a feeling of completion that is rarely attainable in mortal lives.

This pitiful man, perched upon such a precarious spot—he has known completion, for a brief moment in his sorrowful life. That sad tale is not for this writer to tell, though even now this man reflects upon it in silent misery. He does not dwell upon the more depressing facets of it, however; instead, he dreams of the happy moments with the golden-haired angel that sang to him from heaven, and who saved him from the depths of hell.

By loving her, he was redeemed; by mingling her tears with his, and pressing such an innocent kiss to his forehead, she brought to him a holiness that none shall ever know, aside from himself.

Aside from himself, and the moon.

A voice that surely came from the heavens themselves is made present in the night air, whispered upon the wind, and the words are handed up by that mighty force to the beautiful orb hanging within the sky.

"_L'ange saint dans le ciel béni, mon esprit désire avec vous pour se reposer..._"

The words do not taint this most blessed of exchanges, as would the words of most men: the same purity remains.

The wind ceases blowing for a moment, and a deeper chill besets him. The faintest of sounds meets sharp ears; a gentle whistle, a quiet moan, a sliver of song that tickles the eardrum and graces the spine with a tingle. It, too, falls silent, and a moment of utter stillness exists in this timeless and eternal second.

The wind begins its onslaught again, and the world returns to normal; time has begun again, and the end of his existence looms near.

He has conferred with the moon. His soul will rest in peace, and await the moment of his angel's death. Their souls will be joined together, and they will wander the halls of eternity hand in hand, long past even the end of time.

Their love transcends time; he believed it long before, when his heart told him it was so. Now, the moon, also, has told him it is so.

She has told him many things. She has told him of his life, and his death; she has shown him his eternity: a long moment of silence, and darkness, before the light forms and joins him again, to lead him through timelessness.

That light is a familiar one.

That light bears the face of his angel, and sings softly to him, enticing him to follow.

"_Presago il core deall tua condanna... In questa domba che per te s'apriva io penetrai furtiva..._"

He turns from the moon, though her gaze remains upon him, lighting his path, casting his shadow upon the rocks, and allowing the shadow of his own skeletal figure to dance with that of the skeleton branches of the tree.

"_E qui lontana da ogni umano squardo..._"

His steps lead him away from the cliff's treacherous edge, away from that solitary tree, and away from the sacred words shared with that most pure of existences.

"_Nelle tue braccia desiai morire..._"

He pauses, and his head lifts, as if listening to something. The howl of the wind has died down, and he cocks his head; there is a voice, her voice, caressing him, carried upon the breeze from the north to meet his own ears, and to place the final bandage upon his tattered heart.

It allows him to die in peace, that voice, and as his footsteps carry him towards the Garnier, those delivered words echo within his mind over and over again.

"_Erik... mon Ange de la Musique... Bientôt, mon ange... Bientôt..._"

His lips part beneath the mask, and echo her words in reply: "Mon ange..." There is a pause, and then he sighs the words, "Je t'aime..."


End file.
